Leaving the meeting at Somer’s Rock had my mind racing faster than was healthy. I desperately needed to make a phone call, but first I had to get out of the area and clear my head. I took off and headed for the beach by the Boardwalk.

  The flight over was soothing. Flying was always good, but flying at night had a special kind of peace to it. Maybe it was the lack of people out and about to spot me from below. Maybe it was the way the cooler air felt against my skin. Either way, I let myself enjoy it, cutting lazy arcs through the sky, diving and swooping, weightless for brief, exhilarating moments.

  When I reached the Boardwalk, I touched down on the roof of a parking deck. I found a little nook beneath one of the support beams and tucked my phone and wallet out of sight. Then I climbed back up, took a short hop, and gave a few soft wingbeats. Just enough to lift off without making a scene, and I glided the rest of the way down to the beach.

  When I was like this… my real self, no shapeshifting, I felt temperature differently. I still registered hot and cold, but the scale was wider, like someone had stretched the slider out in both directions. Cold floors didn’t bother me. The chill of a late-April night? Pants and jacket weather for most people.

  For me, it felt nice. Bracing. Clean. I hadn’t pushed the upper end of my new tolerance much yet, but I’d noticed the difference. A mug of freshly nuked coffee? Barely warm.

  This was maybe stupid, but I wanted to try and go for a swim.

  So I did.

  I strolled down the beach, spreading my toes and sinking into the looser sand until I hit the firmer, compacted stuff near the surf. Cold saltwater washed over the pads of my feet and toes. It felt great. Looking around the dark beach and seeing no one, I shrugged and kept wading in.

  The water rose steadily with each step. Knees. Thighs. Waist. Chest. Shoulders.

  I kept getting lighter, the deeper I went—but not as much as I expected.

  I do float… right?

  When the waves started slapping against Apex’s face, I felt that familiar buoyancy—but I could still feel the faint pressure of my toes in the sand. Not weightless. Not quite.

  I took in a deep breath, as full as I could manage. The soles of my feet felt suction as I went buoyant.

  Not exactly.

  I felt a subtle prod of my power in my head as I bobbed mostly submerged in the ocean.

  Sure… why not?

  I opened the floodgates and let the sensation radiate outwards from my chest. It was really pretty minor, nearly imperceptible. Some tingling on my hands, feet, and tail. I brought one big arm up out of the water. I had a fin extending out from the underside of my forearm, and full webs between my fingers. I pulled my tail up next. Pretty much the same thing, stabilizing fins in various spots down the length, and a quite large vertical fin that split my articulated claws at the end into two clean halves.

  Turning toward the shore, I leaned back and let the waves take me. The ocean cradled me, my body buoyed just enough, my tail weaving in slow, lazy undulations. It kept my head and chest afloat, just above the waterline.

  More importantly, it was relaxing. Deeply, startlingly so.

  I let go. Let my mind rest. Let the saltwater hold me up and carry me forward, directionless. I couldn’t see where I was going: the surf blurred my vision, and the rest of my eyes were underwater. But I didn’t need a destination. The tide knew the way. That was enough.

  Before we start parsing the day, let’s just be here for a moment. Mindful. Present.

  I’ve changed in the past month. More than even I realize, I think. And I’m still changing, moment by moment.

  I brought tentacles forward and traced them over the contours of my mask–Apex’s face–like one might trace the backs of their fingers over someone’s face. Gentle. Searching. An exploration of self.

  Every day, the dynamic shifts just a little more.

  I remember when I first discovered my face. It was hard. Expressionless. No lips to smile or frown with. Pure black eyes that didn’t move–or at least didn’t look like they did. A face that wasn’t a face at all. A mask. A helmet. Pure utility.

  But now? I feel safer with my face-over-face. I felt secure. The lack of expression almost suits me better. And the added level of sensory input?

  Going from eight eyes to two, from tracking multiple things to tracking a single thing. It’s not a compromise, it’s regression.

  I’ve always been cocky. I’ve always loved teasing people, poking at their egos just enough to watch them squirm. But now?

  Even my ability to fuck with people has evolved.

  I do miss being attractive. I miss being wanted, feeling desired. Being misgendered and dehumanized sucks.

  But now? My entire body is armor. Knives can’t pierce or cut me. My claws can slice steel. My limbs can pulverize stone without so much as a scuff.

  Let them throw their insults. Let them dehumanize me. It just proves their impotence. I can taste their fear.

  I was out in the bay a good distance from what I could tell. I rolled over in the water so I could get a look around. The water, like everything else, slid cleanly and effortlessly off my body, leaving no trace behind.

  I’d drifted out closer to the Protectorate rig in the bay. The bubble of the shield gleaming maybe a few hundred feet away. I didn’t want to get any closer. No need to draw attention to myself and potentially cause issues.

  I want to try going underwater.

  Grabbing a breath of air, I dove underwater headfirst and swam down under the surface.

  I could see moderately well. The bay wasn’t known for having the crystal clear Bahama waters or anything. Everything below was gradients of murk, the background fading from gray to darker gray the deeper I went. It made gauging distances difficult.

  Bringing my arms forward for a breaststroke, I paused, caught off guard by their appearance.

  They looked alien: long, jointed, with translucent webbing and faint fins that caught the light. Strange and fluid, almost luminous. I turned my head and looked at the rest of me, what little I could see.

  A bright, silvery, reflective color, like mercury and chrome, had decided to have a child.

  Strange.

  I found that while I could give myself a decent thrust with my arms and legs, it was easier, almost instinctive, to stop kicking and let my tail do the work. One long, slow sweep, and I glided forward effortlessly. Another, and I adjusted my course. I was streamlined. Built for this.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  I kept going, tail weaving back and forth, drifting deeper. After a minute or two underwater, I felt a slight itch down my back. Right between where my wings attached and my spine. Then, without warning, my chest filled with water.

  I panicked.

  For a heartbeat, I was certain I’d miscalculated. That I’d just flooded my lungs and was about to drown.

  …Except I didn’t feel like I was drowning. The cold water inside me, if anything, felt good. Refreshing. Like something deep in me had been thirsty for it.

  I tested it. Mouth closed, I stilled my limbs, and moved my diaphragm.

  There it was. A subtle draw-and-release. A motion I hadn’t practiced, but my body already knew.

  Water flowed in and out of slits along my back.

  I was breathing.

  Another part of me I didn’t choose. But it didn’t make it wrong.

  What struck me most was that I hadn’t felt my power activate. No familiar prod. No mental click or surge of energy.

  Had those openings been there all along?

  Had I just… never noticed?

  …What else is hiding under the surface, waiting for the right moment to wake up?

  I dove down and swam toward the gentle incline of the seabed, gliding just above the sand.

  I was so tempted to just put my worries behind me, shut my brain off entirely, drift to the sea floor, and sleep. Maybe I’d try that soon. It sounded quite nice.

  But not tonight.

  The light levels came up as the water grew shallow, and my head breached the surface. I climbed to my feet and walked out of the water. Water was draining out of my chest and streaming down my back, and when it seemingly had drained out, I felt the need to cough a couple of times.

  A couple of odd chuffs got any remaining water and crud out, and my back sealed shut again. I took a deep breath of air.

  I’d landed pretty much on target. A wide concrete staircase cut into the slope of the beach, bridging the gap between sand and the seawall. Beyond it was a sidewalk, a parking lot, and then the street and the low silhouettes of the Boardwalk’s shops and buildings.

  Someone was waiting for me.

  This day just keeps getting better and better. I should have just camped out on the seabed. Great. Let’s see what he wants.

  I took the steps four at a time. Slow and casual. No need to instigate or escalate things.

  Armsmaster stood near his fancy motorcycle in his blue power armor, helmet on, and halberd held in one hand, held vertically with one end resting on the ground. Glancing around without moving my head, I noted he wasn’t alone. Miss Militia and Shadow Stalker were both lurking on nearby rooftops. They were doing a pretty good job of hiding; they weren’t silhouetting themselves, but the glow of their body heat gave up the game.

  I came to the top of the staircase and stepped over the sidewalk onto the pavement.

  Armsmaster’s hand tensed on his halberd. “That’s close enough.”

  I didn’t stop immediately. Instead, I took a slow, deliberate moment to arrange my tentacles, gathering the thicker strands into a loose, tucked ponytail behind my head, letting the rest drape down the sides like curtain bangs made of muscle and instinct.

  A gesture of peace. Or control. Or both.

  “What’s this all about?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral. The natural bass of my voice carried easily across the quiet street.

  “It’s past curfew,” he said, voice cool and clipped.

  I tilted my head slightly. We were a dozen feet apart, and I had to angle it down to address him. I slowly, casually crossed my lower arms over my chest and canted my hips slightly to the side. My big arms I left loose and relaxed, hanging down to my calves.

  Just a hint of sass. A touch of ‘tude.

  “Does it require three heroes to remind me that it’s past my bedtime?” I asked, voice mild. “If this is out of concern for my safety, then I can assure you, I am not particularly concerned about roving bands of ABB. Especially not in this part of the city.”

  “I want an explanation as to why you’re flouting curfew, sneaking around the Boardwalk, and swimming around a PRT facility in the middle of the night–during a state of emergency.” His voice was tight.

  Are you serious right now?

  “Okay. First of all, let’s talk about framing. I’m flouting curfew because the city is scared and tense right now, and it’s easier for me to move about at night and take care of personal business without contributing to the problem.”

  I paused for a breath.

  “Secondly, I’m not sneaking around the Boardwalk. I’m trying to be considerate. Trying not to be loud and conspicuous, for the same reason.”

  A bit of exasperation snuck into my voice. “And I was just swimming. It’s been a stressful day, and I wanted to try and relax. I can’t exactly go watch a movie or hang out at a bar, now can I?”

  His response was brusque.

  “You just happened to swim straight at the most secure facility in the city and then back again. Accidentally. You wouldn’t have happened to be doing recon work? Or planting devices in preparation for something else?”

  “You can’t be serious right now. Look.”

  I raised my upper arms into the air slowly, tilted my head up, and held my lower arms out to the side. Then I did a slow spin. I didn’t let any of the three out of my sight while demonstrating.

  I resumed my prior stance when I finished, lightly tapping a claw on the bicep of a lower arm in quiet irritation.

  “You’ll note the lack of saboteur packs. Or for that matter, anything on my person. I was literally just going for a swim to relax, and between not paying attention to where I was going and the currents, I wound up near the oil rig.”

  “Tinker devices could have been hidden, camoufla-”

  I interrupted him.

  “Tinker devices from who?! Uber? Leet? Those two idiots barely qualify as background noise. You or Kid Win? For what reason, so you can spy on… yourself?”

  I took a breath, my voice just a hair sharper.

  “I don’t understand this paranoia—this overreaction to something so basic and easily explainable, which I’ve already done. Does Occam’s Razor just not apply here?”

  One hand still firmly planted on his halberd, he raised his other to point an accusatory finger.

  “We are aware of your activities today. That you’re making house calls in villain dens like that’s just a normal activity.”

  His jaw clenched.

  “That you attended an exclusive meeting of the worst scum in this city—and weren’t attacked. Or thrown out. That you’ve agreed to work directly with them. Hand in hand. A truce among villains.”

  The finger swung away from me, aiming toward the Protectorate rig behind him.

  “And then, immediately after leaving that meeting, you come here. Straight to the rig.”

  Oh fuck. Someone ratted.

  I didn’t move. Kept my body loose. Still. I brought my lower arms up, palms open in what I hoped was a placating gesture.

  “Whoah, whoah, hang on. I consider myself neutral here. I attended that meeting out of a desire to help the cit-”

  “I don’t care what you consider yourself!” Armsmaster snapped. “What you think and feel is irrelevant.”

  His voice rose, taut and furious.

  “If you wanted to help, you would’ve come to us. You don’t flirt with filth.”

  His pointing hand dropped. He took his halberd in both hands and brought it up across his chest. Not aimed at me.

  Not yet.

  I still didn’t move.

  There was whispering—low and tight—from the other two on the rooftop. Coordination. Miss Militia and Shadow Stalker. I couldn’t make out the words, but I caught the vibration in my bones. My hands were still raised. Well, up and down.

  There was a flicker of nervousness in my voice.

  “Let’s—Let’s not get hasty here. We can talk. We can sort this out.”

  Armsmaster didn’t waver. His voice was grim. Cold.

  “You’re coming with us. Surrender.”

  Oh. Fuck me.

  I knew this play cold. This wasn’t a conversation. It wasn’t a warning.

  This was an arrest. Containment.

  I raised my voice so the others would hear me clearly. I didn’t care how it sounded.

  “Please. Please. I’m begging you–don’t do this. There are more important things at stake. I am not a villain! ”

  Armsmaster flicked his thumb along the shaft of his halberd. I heard a faint hum as the weapon powered on, and with a nearly silent whir of servos, he moved.

  It was a half-swing, half-thrust, fast and deliberate. Not a full attack. A test. A threat.

  I did not want to fight them. To do so would only make things worse.

  He was fast. The kind of fast that came from hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours fighting with that weapon. Perfect muscle memory, fine-tuned and amplified by his armor.

  But I was faster.

  One of my lower arms snapped up and caught the halberd just beneath the multi-function head, inches from my chest plate.

  “I’m not fighting you! Stop!” I shouted.

  My grip was solid. Unyielding. He might as well have cast the weapon’s head in a block of iron.

  I felt him test the tension. His fingers shifted. He pressed another button—or a sequence—and with a mechanical snap, barbed prongs shot out from the end of the shaft. They struck my upper right breastplate with ballistic force.

  The metal rang like a bell. No penetration.

  A split second later, a rapid staccato crackle filled the air. Electricity surged from the point of contact, arcing across my armor, skipping over my skin. The sharp, metallic scent of ozone flooded the street.

  I didn’t feel a thing.

  I opened my jaw slightly and bared my teeth. Then I yanked on the weapon.

  He had a choice: let it go, or come with it.

  He chose the former.

  In a seamless motion, I compressed my legs, dropping a foot of elevation, and launched myself backward and over the edge of the seawall.

  My wings snapped open with a crack that echoed off the buildings. I thrust hard, harder than I ever had. The downforce of my wings hit the beach like a bomb. Sand exploded in every direction as I shot upward on the first few beats.

  “I am not your enemy!” I shouted down at them.

  Armsmaster raised his hands, shielding his exposed lower face from the blast of sand. In my grip, the halberd buzzed violently. Arcs of electricity lashing off it, crawling over the skin of my arm.

  I aimed it like a javelin and threw it.

  The weapon struck the pavement headfirst, a few feet in front of his motorcycle. It embedded deep, the shaft vibrating like a tuning fork.

  I stopped caring about being considerate. Or quiet. Or civil.

  I flew full-power across to the parking deck and slammed down on the rooftop, claws gouging deep into the concrete.

  My tail coiled down, found the nook where I’d hidden my phone and wallet, and pulled them free.

  Another thunderous beat of my wings shook the air. Then I was gone.

  I was pissed.

  I passed my phone up to my tentacles, unlocked it, and fired off a quick text to Faultline.

  Me: Coming over. ETA 2–3 minutes.